If Harry Potter was American
by celestial-coffee
Summary: A very strange and bizarre fanfiction of how Harry Potter would be if he were American. I'm not sticking to the entire series, but a summer with his friends.
1. Chapter 1

American Harry Potter

Okay...so this is basically about what would happen if Harry Potter occurred in America with today's culture...not the basic "HERMIONE+RON" or other pairings, or where the author inserts a Mary Jane. No. This one...is...well...scary. D Enjoy! (as best you can!)

Some ideas contributed by Allie AKA tarotguurl, AKA "paranoid". D

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Harry and Ron were sitting outside the Seven-Eleven, gulping down a couple of slurpees. It was a bright summer day, and Harry managed to get out of the Durseley's grasp, even though it would only be for the day, to spend time with his buddy. Hermione would've gladly come along, but she was busy studying. As usual. Harry had just finished his slurpee when he noticed an enormous boy his own age, wearing an oversized T-shirt (and it was surprising how he could actually _find_ it oversized, since he was already huge), sagging pants, and a doo-rag over his blonde head. His pale white skin was blinding in the summer sun. "Dudley," Harry muttered under his breath, before ducking behind a parked car. Fortunately, the oaf didn't notice Potter as he stepped inside the shop for junk food. "Harry? You all right?" Ron asked, giving his comrade a peculiar look.

Harry nodded, standing up. "You saw that guy who just walked in the store a second ago?" Ron nodded. "That's my cousin, Dudley. Wait, you didn't recognize him?" "THAT was Dudley? NO way!" "Well, let's get out of here before he beats the crap outta me!" The two then threw out their slushies and walked down the street as quickly as possible. "Why don't we go see how Hermione's doing with her studies?" Ron suggested, and Harry nodded. They made a left at the oddly green park and a right at an abandoned shack. Before they knew it, they were walking into a cul-de-sac with identical-style pastel houses on either side, with perfect-cut lawns and neat porches.

"Oh my god! Hermione lives _here?"_ Harry gasped. He'd never been to Hermione's house before, so the shock of the cleanliness was a bit overwhelming for the moment. Ron nodded, his fluffy red hair bobbing up and down. "It's not all too surprising, though. I mean, she _is _Miss Perfect." Harry's eye twitched as they continued walking down the street. The two then stopped before a pristine white house. "Here it is," Ron said, and they stepped up to the porch. Only a second after he'd rung the doorbell, Hermione's mother answered. She was wearing a blue, flowery June Cleaver dress and lacy apron, as well as pearl earrings with a matching necklace, and black velvet heels. "Why, hello, Ron dear!" she said, flashing a sugary sweet smile at the red head. She then turned to Harry and delicately extended her right hand to him. "And you must be Harry! It's so good to meet you!" The two shook hands and Mrs. Granger stepped within the house to invite them in.

"Would you two like something to eat? I've got cookies in the kitchen." "Eh, no thank you, Mrs. Granger." Ron quickly said. "We've already eaten." "Well, okay, then. I'll call Hermione down. Just make yourselves at home!" She then scooted off into the hall. Harry gave Ron an odd look, before taking in the entry room, himself. There was a small, beige sofa with an embroidered flower print to one wall, and a white fireplace on the opposing wall. The floor was a light tan carpet, and the walls were papered with daisies. "Are we in the Twilight Zone, man?" he finally said, poking the flower-print shaded lamp by the sofa. Before Ron could answer, though, Hermione came into the room. She contrasted greatly with her environment: she wore a black shirt, black headband, black sweater, black skirt, black stockings, and a pair of black combat boots. "Hermione, you actually _live_ here?" Harry blurted, but she only rolled her eyes. "Come on, you two!" She led the way outside, with her friends close behind.

Harry was still shivering even as they were two blocks away from the perfect, pristine neighbourhood. "Would you CUT it OUT, already?" Hermione snapped. She slapped her hand on the back of Harry's fluffy black head. After walking another five minutes, Ron said loudly, "Man, I'm bored!" Harry and Hermione looked at him, and then down the road ahead. "Well, _I_ certainly don't know what to do," Hermione said with a grim expression. "I know!" Ron said, answering his own cry for entertainment. "How about we go to the dance club down the street? You know the one I'm talkin' about, right Harry?" Ron gave his buddy and sharp punch on the arm. Harry nodded, wincing from the sudden strike. "It's for us teenagers, so no creepy old guys should be there."

Hermione opened her mouth to say something, when something shrilly cried, "HAAAARRRY POTTER!" The trio quickly spun around to find a small human-like creature, about a foot tall, with a long, beaked nose and red, bloodshot eyes. His strawberry blonde hair was rather long and nappy, and a green bandana was tied around his head. He wore what looked like a tie-dye dress, and was barefoot. "Hey, man!" he said, in his tiny little voice, bowing down before the boy. "I'm, like, Dobby, and I'm here to give you this message." Hermione sniffed the air, but didn't say anything, otherwise. Ron was staring at the creature, boggled. Harry already knew the house elf, but didn't want to interrupt. "So, dude, you, like, totally gotta see Hagrid tonight at the, uh, what's that place called?" Dobby snapped his long, bony fingers as he ransacked his mind for the name of the pub. "Oh yeah, man, it's that groovy pub that serves those spicy fries with your mug. Yeah, he said, like, to totally meet him there at, like, six o'clock."

Harry nodded, and checked his watch. He had to be at the pub in three hours, which was plenty of time, since the pub was only about two blocks away. "Now, like, I've totally gotta go before my master, like, kills me, or something." In a poof of thick smoke, the elf was gone. "That was…odd…" Ron said, after a moment of silence. "Do you know the place Dobby was speaking of?"

To be continued...

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Okay, I didn't expect to write this fan fiction either, but one day, I just started thinking... What if Harry Potter were American? I know, it's kind of crazy, but...look who the author is. (Celestial waves and flashes a big, cheesy smile.) Erm, so, if you're not completely creeped out, please rate and review! Please review constructive criticism, nothing basically consisting of "ur fanfic is stoopid" because for one thing, it's not nice; and for the other thing, it doesn't help me one bit. If you actually do enjoy this first chapter, please tell me, and I'll write more! (Now I'll definitely expect less positive reviews...) Remember, I've still got my staff! - Your author, Celestial.


	2. GINNY!

American Harry Potter: Chapter Two

Harry nodded, scratching his chin. "It's a couple of blocks away from the convenience store we were just at." he said, and Ron nodded as well. "You mean that nasty little tavern beneath the overgrown bushes?" Hermione said. "That's the one. And it's ME that has to go, not YOU!" Harry retorted to Hermione's grumbling. "Come on, Ron, let's go to your place," she said, and the trio took off down the street, around a few corners, and past a community pool. They finally stopped before a large trailer home, with lilac aluminum siding and framed by a mesh fence. Mrs. Weasley opened the door wide open as soon as they stepped up to the porch. "Welcome, Harry! Hermione!" she said, stepping aside to let the three enter. She was wearing a blue denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, a pair of denim capris, and a pair of white sandals. The house smelled of lemons, a sign that she'd just finished cleaning.

"Oh, please excuse the mess!" she apologized immediately, as they all stepped into the living room. "I've hardly had a chance to clean around here!" "It's okay, mom!" Ron said, as Harry squinted from the sun's reflection off the spotless coffee table. Hermione walked over and closed the blinds so they all wouldn't lose their sight. Just then, a skinny little girl a year younger than her brother Ron sauntered in the room. She had her long, red hair pulled up in a side ponytail with a pink ribbon. She wore a small, thin white halter-top decorated with rhinestones, a denim mini skirt, and a pair of light-blue, heeled sandals. She obviously put on a bit too much green eyeshadow, and her blush was on the bright side. Mrs. Weasley stood there stunned. "Ginny! Young lady, are _certainly _not going out looking like _that_!" she roared. Harry, Ron, and Hermione simply backed out of the room, not wanting to face the woman's wrath.

When you got Mrs. Weasley angry, you could do one of two things: immediately apologise and promise never to do it again, or run far, far away. If you chose the foolish, and seldom used, third option, which was to sit there and roll your eyes; let's just say we probably won't see you tomorrow. Ginny, unfortunately, chose that third option. "Oh, come _on_, _mother_!" she said in an annoyed tone. "I'm _old _enough to make my _own_ decisions, now! I mean, I'm _fourteen_ for goodness's sake!" Her mother squinted at her. "How _dare _you talk to me in that tone of voice, _young lady_!" She took a deep breath and chewed her thoughts carefully. "If fourteen makes you so much of an 'adult', why don't you have a job?" "Ooooh!" Harry whispered to himself, but Hermione slapped him on the back of the head.

Ginny huffed, folding her arms across her chest. "I don't need to listen to _this_!" she said. She quickly stormed over to the green leather sofa and grabbed her designer handbag before marching out the door. "Ginny! Get back here!" Mrs. Weasley shouted, but she didn't move. "You're GROUNDED!" But Ginny didn't hear her sentencing, for she was already past the rusty gate, heading down the street. Ron, Harry, and Hermione hurried out the backdoor, certain that the former's mother had forgotten them in her anguish.

"Wait till I get my hands on that kid!" Ron said, infuriated. How could he let his sister go out in practically nothing? "Well, let's go get her!" Harry said, and Hermione nodded. "We can talk to her when we catch up with her." So the trio took off into the direction Ginny had gone, but it didn't take them long to catch up with her, since she'd long slowed down after the first street crossing. "Ginny! What on earth are you doing?" Ron shouted, grabbing his little sister by the elbow. She tried to pull back, but he was stronger. "Let me go! I don't need anybody!"

"Listen to me, Ginny!" Ron growled, his grip becoming tighter. Ginny stopped wriggling and listened to her brother, angrily glaring at him with thickly lined, heavily shadowed and glittered eyes. "What if some guy just waltzes down the street, sees you and grabs you?" He was never really articulate. She hesitated a bit, her lips curling in and out of a frown. "Now please, come home and... put some more clothes on." "Well," she said, flashing her eyes to her left and back to her brother. "Okay...but under one condition."

"What's that?" Ginny grinned, reaching into her designer handbag and pulling out a magazine clipping. "I want this dress." She handed the picture to her brother, whose jaw dropped as soon as he saw the price on the side. "Ginny! This is five hundred bucks!" he exclaimed. It was a rather small dress, especially as seen on the model, and didn't look like anything fantastic. "Come ON! We're going HOME!" Ron grabbed his sister by the arm and literally dragged her back to the trailor. "You two go on," he said to his comrades. "I've got some business to take care of." He then glared at his sibling, then forward to his home.

"Great," Hermione said, exasperated. "Another materialistic brat. I bet you she'd give her wardrobe for a house elf." She squinted as she said that last word. Harry knew that Hermione was in on the underground rebel movement to free all the house elves, or at least as many as magically possible. Her watch beeped, and she jumped. "Harry, I've got to go!" she quickly said, beginning to wave good bye. "I'll talk to you later," She was soon darting down the street, back to her perfect house in the perfect cal de sac. Harry nearly vomited at the thought. He then shoved his hands into the pockets of his tight black jeans and went back to the Durseley's house. He didn't know why he was headed that way, but his feet certainly must have known.

As soon as he stepped into the small, two-story abode, something comparable to a rhinocerous groan could be heard from behind the ever-luminescent television set. "HARRY!" it roared. The beast stood up to his full height, which was barely five foot four. He was very heavy set, and his pudgy face was always cherry red when he was yelling at his nephew. This was dear old Uncle Vernon. "Verny-poo!" cried a screechy voice from the kitchen. A middle-aged woman scuttled into the room. She wore a fashionable peasant skirt and top, though they didn't flatter her a bit because of her bony figure and the fact that she looked to old to wear that type of clothing. Her ever-thinning blonde hair was lightly crimped, but didn't match with the shape of her thin, worn face. "Don't get too upset, Verny darling! You know you've got to watch your blood pressure!"

Harry's uncle grumbled and snorted, before sitting down in his soft, comfortable recliner. "You'll be the death of me, you little punk!" he snarled. "Now, where've you been? You haven't been torturing Dudley, have you?" Harry rolled his eyes and shook his head. Uncle Vernon grabbed the teen by his black t-shirt and pulled him to the floor. "Don't get an attitude with me! You're lucky I let you live here, remember that, you ungrateful brat!" As Harry got up, Aunt Petunia grabbed him by the ear and pulled him into his room. "Now you stay here!" she said in her screechy voice. "You'll give your uncle a heart attack, one of these days!" With a worried look, she slammed the door on Harry and locked him in his room.

Along the four, faded blue walls were pictures of baseball and football players. Harry didn't put them up there himself, though. In fact, he could really care less about those sports. Uncle Vernon really put them up there. '_Gotta make a normal kid outta that brat!_' he remembered his uncle saying as he put the pictures on the walls. There was a lumpy bed with bland, tan covers on it, in one corner. Along the same wall was a small, pine dresser that was starting to become dilapidated. All over his wooden desk and rugged oak flooring were papers and spell books for Hogwarts from the previous years, though a few did rest in his book bag.

He punched at his pillow and looked at his watch. '_Five thirty,_' he thought when something struck his mind harder than a frozen fish. He was supposed to meet Hagrid at six at that crusty tavern! In shock that he could've ever forgotten something so important, he ran to the door. He then remembered that his aunt had locked him in his room, and so he plopped down on his bed. '_What now, Harry?_' he thought to himself. Suddenly, a loud rapping sound came from his window...

To be continued...


	3. Incident at the Dusty Sword

American Harry Potter: Chapter Three

Harry pulled apart the dusty, ragged curtains with a floral pattern that had to be from the seventies. "Harry! You're going to be late!" Hermione shouted through the glass. Harry opened the window and stepped onto the roof with her. "How did you get up here?" he asked, looking down onto the grass that was many feet below them. "I came in on a broomstick!" "Really? What kind? You know, there's a new series-" "Oh, shut up!" Hermione snapped, giving him the evil eye for not recognizing sarcasm. She walked over to the gnarly tree that happened to be conveniently located just beside the house, and the two climbed down.

"Do you even know what time it is?" she said angrily, slapping the watch on her wrist. "Five-thirty, the last time I checked," "Yeah! Well, it's," Hermione paused to check her watch. "Five-forty-two now! We better hurry if we're going to meet Hagrid." So the two set off down the street towards the main part of town.

As they were walking down Main Street, they met up with Ron, who was sitting on a bench beside a fountain. He was angrily throwing pebbles at the spitting Satyr statue that stood in the center of the fountain. "Hey Ron, what's the matter?" Harry asked, as they walked up to him. Ron grumbled incoherently. "Ron, speak up!" Hermione scolded, crossing her arms across her chest. Ron sat up straight and turned to them. "I'm still sore about Ginny going out like she did. What if somebody grabbed her or something?" Harry patted his friend on the back and invited him to come along to the crusty tavern and talk to Hagrid. "Thanks, Harry," Ron said, and the trio of comrades made their way to the tavern.

"Oh my gosh!" Hermione gasped, looking at her watch. "It's five fifty-nine! We'll never make it!" "Er, Hermione," Harry said. "we're already here." They were standing before a door with two signs—one reading the times it was open and the other read the tavern name, "The Dusty Sword."

" 'The Dusty Sword' ?" Ron said, scratching his head. "Is that like IHOP, International House of Old Peo-" Hermione slapped the back of his head, as Harry simply snickered.

They opened the old, wooden door, which they realized was completely soundproof when they stepped inside. The music was loud, and made their organs pump to the beat. The strobe lights made every motion look extremely slow. "THIS is a crusty tavern!" Ron exclaimed, though both Hermione and Harry looked just as confused. It didn't take long to find Hagrid, as usual. "HEY KIDS!" he shouted, waving his giant hand in the air.

The trio looked around uncomfortably, afraid someone might notice and kick them out of the club for being underage. When no one seemed to notice the outburst, they quickly walked over and sat next to Hagrid. "So, I see yous got my message, Harry?" Harry nodded. "Well, I do gots something really oy-gent to tell yous," Just then, a lean woman standing on the platform in high heels and a bikini walked up to the pole just before them.

"OH GOOD LORD!" Hermione screamed. "Oh, come on, Hermione! I suppose you're gonna go through something about woman objectification or some-" Harry turned his head towards his friend, and he abruptly ended his sentence. His eyes widened to teacup saucers and his jaw dropped. He couldn't believe what he was seeing with his own two eyes, and even then he knew he'd be scarred for life. It was Dudley himself, wearing only a thong and sleeve cuffs, attempting to give a lap dance to Hermione. The victim tried to pull herself as close to the chair as possible, but Dudley's fat-swollen legs and rumpus made escape impossible. She couldn't back her chair away, either, for she was already hitting it against the wall.

No one spoke, save for Hermione's shrieks of terror. Finally, Harry stood up and began speaking. "Dudley, what the hell are you doing here?" Dudley stopped for a moment, his brain ticking to remember the answer. "Daddy found out that I'd been getting junk food at the convenience stores with the money he gave me, so he cut me off so I could finally lose weight. Now I can't buy anything because I spent my last dollar on a slushie and cupcake, so I'm desperate for money!"

"Hey, fat kid!" called the pale figure of Draco from a distant chair. He looked disgusted by the incident he had just witnessed, and was scarred for life as well. "Come here." He waved his hand in a motion for Dudley to come to him. Dudley slowly lumbered over and looked at the pale one with eager eyes. "Hey, I'll tell you what," Draco began, with a smirk on his face. "How 'bout I pay you a million bucks just to jump off a cliff? Yeah, that cliff right off the parking lot outside this joint!"

"You WILL?" Dudley gasped with actual enthusiasm. He then quickly ran out of the club, practically crashing through the door, and over the damp, dark pavement of the parking lot. Harry looked at the pale one with an eyebrow raised. "What did you do that for, Draco? He's gonna go and do that now!" "No way!" the pale Draco said with an expression of disbelief on his face.

"RON!" Hagrid lightly slapped the sides of Ron's face, after he had dropped his head onto the table during Dudley's performance. "I think he's fainted!" "There's no time for that! We've got to get to Dudley!" Harry said, rushing out the door. Draco, Hagrid, and Hermione followed quickly behind, leaving Ron unconscious at the table.

Harry and Draco were the first to the edge of the cliff, and looked down the entire fifty feet below them. Below the cliff was nothing but rocks and shrubs, insuring a quick departure into the possibly existent afterlife. They then saw what was left of the obese teen. "Damn," Draco said, a perplexed look on his face. "He really did it! The dumbass really jumped off the cliff!"

Draco then walked back to the middle of the parking lot before falling down laughing. He grabbed his stomach and chuckled as he rolled around on the pavement. Hermione was just about to speak when Ron, now awake, came up the parking lot with tears in his eyes. "He, he…and the…and he….but the…" he babbled, his voice becoming whinier by the syllable. "Oh, come on, Ron. I'll take you home." Hermione said, exasperated, and grabbed the now sobbing red-head's arm. "Good night, gang!" The two then left the parking lot and down the sidewalk, where they disappeared from view.

"Well, Harry, I suppose now's the time to tells ya the important thing," Hagrid began. Draco was still rolling around on the ground chuckling.

To be continued…

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I'm cruel, aren't I? Or maybe I'm just a sick freak, but anyway, there's no need to answer that. Again, reviews and constructive criticism are appreciated! Note that I said constructive criticism, meaning no, "Your fanfic sucked. Go do what Dudley did and jump off a cliff." There are two reasons: firstly, it's just not nice; secondly, it doesn't help me improve in areas where I need to do so. Thank you. I hope you had as much fun reading this as I did writing it. Okay, I know you probably didn't, but just the same, there are more fun surprises in store for American Harry Potter!


	4. At the Hospital

Harry nervously sat in the waiting room, the stiff chair beneath his bum doing little to cushion him from the hard metal base. His uncle stared knives and daggers at his nephew, searching in his own mind every possible way he could blame Harry for his son's predicament.

Feeling the enmity of his uncle, Harry grew even more uncomfortable, shifting from side to side while staring at five-month-old home designing magazine. He pretended to read it while he thought of a way to escape the malevolent eye of his uncle. Within minutes, a nurse stepped into the room, on her way to the desk, when Harry quickly tossed the magazine onto the coffee table and walked up to her. "Could you tell me where the cafeteria is?" he asked, and immediately dashed down the hallway as soon as she'd given him directions. Uncle Vernon had little time to react, and was too exhausted to pursue the teenager.

Free from his uncle's grasp and glare, Harry breathed a light sigh of relief. He quickly remembered, of course, that he was in a hospital, one of his least favourite places to be.

As he walked down the hall, he took note of the light tan walls carrying cheerful and serene paintings of beach scenes; the quaint lamps that hung between these paintings; the warm, inviting maroon carpeting; and the occasional potted rubber tree plant. The hospital seemed to have made every effort in making the place cheerful and "just like home." And it all sickened Harry to his bowels.

'It's all phony!' he thought to himself. As long as that air, that combination of cleaning chemicals and generic-brand Lysol and who-knows-what, hung about, the façade that the decorators put up would fool no one but the numbest of nimrods.

As he continued his journey down the hall, past a gift shop and a pair of catty visitors, he saw a familiar face coming the opposite direction. Her slightly frazzled blonde hair rustled beneath her gleaming aluminum beanie and framed her wan face. Her baggy T-shirt bore the image of a green alien holding a magnifying glass, with the caption, "INVESTIGATE ROSWELL." Her faded and torn dark jeans, being of some obscure colour between dark blue and black, covered the tops of her gray Velcro steel-toed sneakers. A laptop carrying case strap crossed across her torso, suspending the bag and its precious contents by her side. "HARRY!" the girl exclaimed, her brown eyes brightening at the sight of a schoolmate.

"Heh, high Luna!" Harry said almost embarrassedly, receiving a light hug. "How've you been?" Just as the question left his lips, he regretted ever even thinking to ask it. "Oh! Same old, same!" Luna replied with a chuckle. "I've just been working on my website!" Her eyes looked up at him and widened. "Wanna see it?"

Before he could even respond, Luna hurriedly retrieved her laptop from her bag and quickly flipped it open, immediately drawing up her webpage. "Well, it's just a blog, for now, but I hope to make a big website, someday! It's called 'Investigate Roswell,' because you know, everything the government has been up to, even to today, has to do with the Roswell incident."

She continued on a rant about the different theories behind the phenomenon, from how Woodrow Wilson had previously communicated with the extraterrestrial beings, but then shot them down and even today there is a galactic war taking place, to how the military really did communicate with other worldly beings, and is using the technology, under the guise of actual scientific research, in everything from stealth planes to comfortable mattresses to chunks of freeze-dried Neapolitan that turn to globs in your mouth.

Harry stared at his comrade, hardly believing that any human being with any sense of rationality could believe such nonsense. Luna then took a breath looked back to her audience. "And how are you?" 'Finally!' Harry thought, 'Someone's thinking of _me_ for once!' "Oh, the usual," he sighed, looking at his black-and-white checkered Vans. "I just feel all dreary and alone in this world. It seems like no one will listen to me,"

"Oh my gosh!" Luna exclaimed. "I know exactly how you feel! Just the other day, I was trying to explain how the government was trying to indoctrinate citi-" "NO!" Harry cut her off. "No! You _don't_understand. _No one_ understands my problems! Do you hear me?" Tears soon came to his Maybelline eyes. "I am a lone wolf in this world! With no one to actually care about me! My parents are dead! Are your parents dead? I THINK NOT!"

"Um, Harry," Luna interrupted his rant. "My mom is actually dead..." "You don't understand! No body understands me!" Harry continued, before storming off. He could no longer bare to be around someone so selfish and thoughtless of others! She had asked him how _he_ felt, and how dare she interrupt him when he was trying to answer! He stuffed his hands into his ever-tight trousers once more, kicking the maroon carpeting that seemed a little too warm and inviting. He cursed the warm beach scenes. He cursed the occasional potted rubber plant that only seemed to want to give him a hug. It made him sick without.

He sniffled as a lock of his fluffy, angled hair flopped over his black, thick-framed glasses. He didn't care, though. The world was against him, even his own hair, but he tried not to care. In fact, he tried so hard, that he hadn't noticed that his Uncle Vernon was in his path, and carelessly bumped into him. "So," Vernon said despicably. "there you are. Let's go home." He then grabbed Harry by the collar and nearly shoved him through the double doors into the lobby.

To be continued...

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A/N: I really wanted to get a lot more into this chapter, but I got tired of waiting to post, so here it is! Chapter Five will hopefully be uploaded in a shorter amount of time! Many apologies for the year-long wait! The next chapter is sure to entertain (or at least shock, or maybe even stir a yawn). I apologies for any grammatical errors in this chapter and those preceding; I know that it really should be "Durseleys'" and not "Durseley's", and that it's actually "too", not "to," but those errors just happened to slip under the radar. 


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